


When I stand in front of you

by Roshwen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock musing, unanswered questions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Roshwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About an hour before he'll see him again, Sherlock ponders the million dollar question: what will John Watson do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I stand in front of you

For more than a year, three hundred and seventy two days to be exact and he’s _always_ exact when it comes to important things, Sherlock never imagined how John would take to his sudden resurrection. Maybe, if he had been someone else he would have done, closed his eyes and let fantasies take over, dreams of John with tears in his eyes, running towards him or John in his arms, sobbing with relief and telling him everything would be forgiven while Sherlock buried his nose in the doctor’s hair and vowed to never, never, ever let him out of his sight again. But Sherlock is not someone else.

Sherlock is Sherlock, and as such he swiftly decided that such flights of fancy, tempting as they might be, were ultimately useless, theorizing without any data whatsoever and only distracting him from his purpose and would therefore keep him away from John even longer.

So he focused. Kept his eyes on the job, reeling in thread after thread of Moriarty’s web until he had finally been able to catch his last and biggest fish: Colonel Sebastian Moran, former right hand man of James Moriarty, and since his boss’ demise the most dangerous man in London. Two days ago Sherlock managed to get to Moran’s latest stakeout den before the Colonel did, knocked him down using no more force than strictly necessary, tied him up, handed him to Mycroft’s minions without complaint and afterwards went back to the hellhole of a basement flat he used as a hide-out and very methodically set out to destroy the furniture, the walls, the windows and the door, breaking everything in exactly the way he didn’t break any of the bones in Moran’s body.

And now it’s two days later, he’s safe, more importantly, _John_ is safe and so now he’s sitting behind a cup of Speedy’s truly disgusting coffee, huddled in his hoodie and alternating between glares at Mr. Chatterjee, who doesn’t recognise him but seems to be struggling nonetheless, and long, nervous stares outside. Any minute now, John will come limping round the corner of Baker Street. And since Sherlock has absolutely nothing else to do while to pass the time, he ponders the question he’s been avoiding for three hundred and seventy two days:

_What Will John Do?_

There are many different answers to that question, Sherlock has already found, some of which are more plausible than others. Because John Watson is nothing if not both utterly predictable and utterly surprising at the same time.

For instance.

John might laugh. Sherlock knows John likes to laugh in the most unbelievable situations, cracking up after a wild cab chase through London or bending double until he’s wheezing during an unexpected visit to Buckingham Palace, and Sherlock returning from the dead is nothing if not unbelievable.  Though Sherlock admits his reappearance might not be the kind of thing John usually finds hilarious. No, finding out your best friend has tricked you into believing his death and has made you mourn him for over a year will probably not make it into one of John’s so-called Funny Stories.

No, laughter is probably out of the question, Sherlock considers, taking another sip of his now lukewarm coffee because Mr. Chatterjee is staring at him again.

Next.

John might cry. Although Sherlock is quite certain John isn’t the outright sobbing kind of bloke, he expects there might very well be a few tears. And if he’s honest with himself, which he always is, and if he is accurately assessing his own most likely response, which he can only hope, the tears present may just not be only John’s.

Sherlock will try not to cry, of course. Firstly because it’s extremely ungainly and secondly because this is not about him or what he needs, it is about John and if John breaks down, Sherlock has to be there to pick him up again. He can’t afford to go down too, even though for the first time in three decades he actually might want to.

It’s a new feeling, this building emotion inside him, and Sherlock isn’t very comfortable with it. He moves on.

John might swear. No, scratch that, Sherlock thinks with the barest hint of a smile, he will most certainlyswear. John is very good at swearing and Sherlock has no doubt he will have learned some new and very interesting words by the end of the day. He’ll probably call Sherlock every name in his admittedly extensive book and then go on and think of a few more. Call him a bastard. An arsehole. A cocked-up empty-headed prick with a skull full of dicks. He’ll be so loud that the entire flat will hear just how much of a brainless egoistic selfish fucking _clot_ Sherlock Holmes really is.

And Sherlock will listen, he realises. Whatever John hurls at him, he will listen and tell himself it’s nothing more than he deserves. If a shout and a few choice words are all he gets as punishment, he will be a very lucky man indeed.

Because, and this is the response Sherlock fears most, this is what twists his insides and freezes his lungs just at the thought, burning more painful than anything else has ever done, even worse than his last and final dose of cocaine: John might turn him away. Slam the door in his face. Tell him he doesn’t know Sherlock anymore, that he doesn’t want anything to with him whatsoever, ever again.

At this point Sherlock has to close his eyes for a moment and remind himself to keep breathing, even as he admits to himself that John has every right to not let him back in again. He knows that this kind of deception won’t be easily forgiven, so he doesn’t dare to expect immediate absolution. He supposes the best he can do is to get on his knees and beg John to give him a chance, allow him to try and repair everything he shattered on the pavement before St. Bart’s.

It would be easier, he muses, fiddling with his now empty cup, if he actually genuinely regretted anything that happened between that day and this one, which he doesn’t. In fact, if by some miracle he could go back in time and do it all over again, he would still make the same decision, time and time again, not changing one bloody thing because any alteration in the chain of events Moriarty had so carefully constructed would inevitably have lead to either John’s death, which is unthinkable, or his own, which would have been inconvenient to the world at large. So Sherlock can’t say he’s sorry, can’t apologise, even if John wants him to he won’t because that would be lying and Sherlock has sworn to himself that ‘I’m a fake’ would be the last lie he would ever tell his partner. From now on, John will get the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, whether he wants it or not.

Whether it will break them both or not.

Fortunately, just before Sherlock manages to truly paralyze himself with fear, his train of thought is derailed by the sight of a short ex-Army doctor in a very practical and very ugly jumper wearily limping across the street. John passes Speedy’s and disappears into 221b, paying absolutely no attention to the youth in the dark hoodie sitting at the window.

Sherlock waits another agonizing fifteen minutes before he goes up and knocks on the door that, with any luck, will lead back to his old life. While he waits for Mrs. Hudson to open the door, unexpected nervousness writhing like a snake in his stomach, he finds himself once again asking himself that one question.

What will John Watson do?

The door inches open.

‘Can I help you, dear?’

Sherlock is about to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for this fic:
> 
>  
> 
> <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YFC4I-v54w>
> 
>  
> 
> Once again, the song is in Dutch, but you might want to listen to it anyway.


End file.
